The Adeptus Astartes problem
by Darkchild130
Summary: Inquisition.  Space Marines.  Afriel Strain.  combat.
1. Chapter 1

**Here is a complete story by me. If you like it, or not, be sure to comment!**

**Now**

The Adeptus Astartes problem.

My master put it to me as a problem, cryptically asking me to find a solution.

On the face of it super human warriors, nigh on unstoppable with their trans-human abilities coupled with the very best weapons and armour might sound like a good idea.

They have lent their considerable might to the Imperium's cause a hundred million times over a hundred million battlefields, vanquishing untold amounts of the enemies of our Emperor, in his name.

The continued existence of our Empire, unyielding in the face of everything the galaxy has thrown at it over ten thousand years, is a testament to their worth.

But what of the physical cost?

Let's consider what it takes to bring these supermen into existence. A vast sector of the Adepus Mechanicum dedicated to maintaining geneseed, entire worlds devoted to manufacturing their weapons and armour and ammunition, secret ship yards using ancient technology to build the vessels that carry them into battle, generations of young men lost in barbaric contests to select a few worthy vassals for the sinister genetic gifts.

It costs just over of half a billion thrones to bring one fully trained Battle-Brother to completion.

I could found an entire regiment of guard, complete with armour and air assets for a similar amount.

And for every few chapters the High Lords of Terra sanction for creation, one may turn at any moment and raze entire worlds to the ground, slaughtering billions in the name of some vile power.

I fear that is the true cost of all this, not one of logistics, rather a burden of the soul.

The history of the Space Marine is liberally peppered with tales of treachery and betrayal. Starting with the Thrice cursed Horus, Bastard Primarch of the dread Black Legion, and his unholy war on Terra during the Great crusade.

It cost our God his very life to smite the infidel, his own son I might add, an action that saw the Imperium torn apart in civil war.

Moving forwards, even in my own lifetime there are countless examples.

The knights of Blood, The Relictors, The Astral Claws, The Punishers and the Soul Drinkers to name but a few.

They are heretics all, each man in each chapter turning from the Emperor's light, the very being responsible for their existence, in order to wage war against us.

It would seem that treachery was written into their DNA.

It's hard to find a root of the issue. It could be the ritualised methods of selecting aspirants, choosing only the most blood thirsty and barbaric youths to join their ranks. It could be the methods of implanting the geneseed or the geneseed itself, inherent impurities missed by half trained specialists more concerned with observing cult tradition than maintaining their integrity.

It could be the training, indoctrination, or maybe the fact that each and every one of them is effectively and adolescent fool given power beyond his wildest imagination.

Each Space Marine never matures beyond childhood, caught in time at a moment where most males believe themselves invulnerable and see the world in black and white, in horribly simplistic terms.

Maybe it's this, the knowledge that they are superior to us in every way but get taught that they exist only to serve humanity, the mewling mass of weaklings and cowards they secretly hate.

Or maybe I'm just speculating.

What I do know is that whatever the reasons, a disproportionate amount of the Adeptus Astartes has turned traitor, a truly horrific amount for those championed to us as our immortal saviours.

And there are a thousand of these chapters out there, at least a thousand, each with its own unique cult and belief system, utilising non-regulated training systems and ideas. And we just hand them the power to end worlds and send them on their way, free to act as they please.

Unstoppable, unpredictable, uncontrollable.

A weapon that is as likely to explode in your face as kill the enemy you made it to fight.

One might question if the Imperium's precious resources might not be put to better use elsewhere.

Of course this is all subjective, I cannot deny the potency of the Adeptus Astartes as a weapon, even one with a double edge to its blade.

So I sit here at my desk at the end of a strange day, perplexed. They were presented to me as a problem, these Space Marines, the _Angels of Death_!

So I have to ask myself if they are the problem,

What is the solution?

-Inquisitor Fellon, Ordo Hereticus 

* * *

><p>The meme-recording ended, the tinny voice projecting from the Dataslate's tiny speaker ceased.<p>

'That is the end of the file sir.'

Brother-Sergeant Cadellon of the Bellators Crimson said as he placed the damaged slate down on the charred remains of a desk and waited for his Captain's response.

Brother-Captain Solant turned away from the single shattered window in the small office and glanced at the leader of his command squad and oldest friend before looking to the floor where the burnt corpse of the Inquisitor lay.

'Is there nothing else?' He asked, his eyes taking in the devastation wrought by his hallowed troops.

The small safe house had been ludicrously easy to overrun, the Inquisitor being surrounded by a menagerie of ex guard and assorted mercenary dogs. They were put down in a hail of bolt rounds in a matter of seconds, the fire breaking out in the office as a result of the frag grenade Captain Solant launched through the flimsy door as he made entry, pumping bolts into the man's prone form even as the room burned around him.

The explosion had set off a pile of paperwork as it maimed the heretic inquisitor, forcing the Battle brothers to wait as it burned itself out before they could explore.

Sergeant Cadellon had prised the damaged dataslate from the dead Inquisitor's hand and searched for contents, being rewarded with the dead man's personal notes.

'There is, my lord. Personnel files, both of the abhumans and Chapter personalities, training routines, equipment lists, target packs. This looks like workup material for a large scale operation.'

Captain Solant shot him a look.

'Take that with us, we will begin analysis as soon as we're back on the _Guilliman's Wrath'_

'It's definitely him, sir.'

Apothecary Luxus interrupted as he left his kneeling position and rose to his feet, a small probe retracting into the Reductor unit worn on his forearm.

'The flesh matches the genetic profile we have on our cogitator banks. The chase is over sir.'

Captain Solant nodded in acknowledgement but his features remained in a tight scowl, something he couldn't quite place causing him bother.

'There's one other thing of note.' Sergeant Cadellon continued.

'The meme-recording is dated. Time stamp reads 229.959M41'

The Captain's eyes narrowed.

'Is there any way it could be forged?' The company commander asked.

Cadellon shook his head. 'Official Ordo encryption, grade black sir. We could access the slate only because it was already open.'

'That date is over thirty years old.'

Solant's mind reeled at the newly revealed information. In the 6 months after the cowardly attack, Brother-Captain Solent and his men had hunted the inquisitor down without even pausing to think about it.

He had always assumed that it was the act of a desperate man, a heretic for whom sanity had finally crumbled under the weight of such elaborate deception.

But this data, this new information laid the seed of doubt in the Brother-Captain's mind. The Inquisitor's own voice spoke as though he was a loyal Imperial servant. He must have genuinely believed he was doing the Emperor's work.

Work that was set in motion many years before. 

* * *

><p><strong>Before<strong>

Captain Hawkins watched the ground rushing by, metres below his feet. The wind howled inside the open troop compartment of the Valkyrie carrier as it flew nape of the earth at speed, at night, following the rocky contours of the valleys and re-entrants that snaked their way through the mountains of Charybdis C24.

Hawkins was seated on the assault bench alongside 5 other commandos of the 101st Commissariat Storm Trooper Battalion, listening to the microbead in his ear as the dark rocks whooshed past in a blur below, the howl of the wind rushing past outside in eager competition with the assault craft's turbines.

'1 minute to drop.' Came the pilots crackling voice over the vox, followed by the crewman manning the heavy bolter holding up an index finger for the benefit of those without access to the flight channel.

Hawkins passed on the gesture and saw his men do the same, knowing that the 6 commandos with their backs to him would be repeating the move on the other side of the craft.

Hawkins and his men were dressed in brown ballistic flightsuits, layered in lightweight armaplas and scarred matt black ceramite plate, covering torsos, thighs and knees.

It was damn hot rig, never failing to make Hawkins burst out in perspiration minutes after donning, even up in the freezing mountains.

Each man also wore cut down shooting gloves and high leg jump boots designed for harsh landings.

Over this was a comprehensive webbing rig containing everything, from a seemingly excessive amount of las power cells to melta bombs and climbing rope.

On their left shoulders the commandos wore a ceramite brassard upon which was mounted an upside down fighting knife, positioned for ease of access for cutting tangled rappelling lines and xenos throats.

Resting muzzle down between each man's legs was a hellgun, it's sinister black form shorter and chunkier than a regular lasgun and bearing a considerably greater punch. This particular pattern had a folding stock and attachment points for lamp packs, las-designators and other paraphernalia.

Each overpowered carbine would only get a maximum of 20-25 shots from a standard munitorum power cell, meaning the Storm Troopers simply carried twice as many.

The commando's heads were covered by mark 5 pressure helmets and re-breathers hid their faces, the faint glow of targeting optics barely visible over the left eyes of the men.

In addition to all this, each man carried specialist gear unique to his role, be it medic, demolitions, anti-armour etc.

Being in command, Hawkins took it upon himself to carry a short power sword in the form of a machete sheathed diagonally across his back and a sidearm in the form of a Godwyn-Deaz pattern bolt pistol strapped to his thigh, making the most of his rank privileges.

An ear splitting roar of afterburners echoed overhead as the convoy's escort, 2 lethal vulture gunships overtook the Valkyries and started their strafing run.

A volley of missiles and cannon fire spewed from the stubby wings of each craft as the lead Valkyrie decelerated hard, nose rising up in the air, giving Hawkins a momentary glimpse of the target area as muzzle flashes lit up the oppressing darkness.

The compound was built into the side of the mountain at the top of a wide defile, its single high wall granted a commanding view of the rocky valley, the natural feature offering absolutely no cover for any troops attempting an attack.

The compound had no exit, having received regular supply drops by ornithopter since the start of the war, the traitor forces content to leave the soldiers and civilians up there to fend for themselves.

Perched at the rear of the compound, which in effect was more of a small village, was a tall building made of bare rockrete, an indentation above the main entrance showing where an Aquila had been removed. The structure was topped with a large cluster of dishes and vox antenna.

Primary target.

The ordnance from the Vultures slammed into the wall of the compound with concussive force, obliterating the traitor guardsmen manning the guns mounted along its edge in torrent of lead and shrapnel.

The vultures peeled away into the night, afterburners howling as they were chased by lines of tracer, an anti-aircraft position inside the compound spewing a ceaseless barrage of 20mm flak rounds into the sky.

This is why the Valkyries flew so low, to stay under the hydra's sight line, this is why they couldn't fast rope straight into the compound.

The North face of the mountain sloped into a sheer drop for hundreds of metres beyond the peak immediately to the rear of the vox array, ruling out the inherent inaccuracies of a grav chute assault.

That left the trail, one way up, one way down.

'Suicide.' Major Shiba of the 405th Harikoni "Warhawks" had said when Hawkins suggested the frontal assault.

'2 Men with heavy bolters could hold a division at bay in that choke point provided they had the ammunition. My company will be cut to ribbons.'

'The vox array must be destroyed.' Hawkins had stated simply. Orders were there to be obeyed.

He had taken an instant dislike to the man, his reluctance to risk his precious drop troopers reeked of cowardice.

Hawkins thought of an old Guard limerick as he roped the ten metres from the assault craft, hitting the dirt with a thud and started charging up the jagged terrain towards the heavily reinforced rockrete wall at the top, some 800 metres away in the gloom.

It was a less than subtle anti-Commissariat ditty, overheard when serving alongside the armoured fist units of Armageddon.

_Hey diddle diddle_

_Straight up the middle_

_They send you straight to your doom_

_With death in front_

_And death at your back_

_You'll be with the Emperor soon_

He grinned inside his helmet, hearing little more than his own panting breath as he approached the target.

The rest of the Storm trooper platoon, his entire command, were in a loose formation around him, each huffing their way up the mountain under a heavy burden of ammo and armour, sucking in great lungful's of air through the claustrophobic re-breathers.

The Harikoni company were shuffling up behind them, beginning to lag behind already in the thin air, the altitude taking its toll.

For a Drop troop unit that fancied themselves elite, the storm trooper captain had to admit he wasn't impressed, especially as he was wearing heavier armour and carrying more gear than them.

For all the bravado and Simian-like posturing they displayed among their own kind, they seemed particularly meek when informed of his planned direct assault.

He reversed his opinion almost immediately as a heavy canister clanged to the earth directly in front of the solid wall spewing thick grey smoke, effectively screening it from view.

This was a spotting round, meaning that the Harikonis had set up their light mortars in good time at the landing-site, an essential part of Hawkins' plan. It also had the added benefit of obscuring the Imperial approach.

'Mortar line, this is ST-1. Add 100, fire for effect.' He breathed into his vox mic, making corrections on the fly, hoping that the mortar detachment commander was listening in.

'Uh ST1, many thanks, add 100, fire for effect.'

The booming of the mortar barrels coincided miserably with the staccato chatter of at least 2 heavy stubbers firing blind from the compound wall, the tracers kicking through the smoke in long bursts from left to right, leaving swirling patterns in the grey fug.

A line of impacts tore up the ground to Hawkin's right and pole-axed the trooper next to him off his feet with a crack of ceramite.

The Captain didn't break stride, just risked a glance to see the stricken commando pick himself right back up and resume the charge, saved by his carapace.

A barrage of mortar canisters landed behind the compound wall in a crescendo of metallic clangs, signalling the discharge of their lethal cargo with a characteristic hiss.

Nerve gas.

The nerve gas was lethal if ingested in large amounts, but used outside Hawkins bet they would drive the occupants of the converted village inside their homes, leaving the route to the target clear.

Catching hints of strangled gasps carried along by the fierce winds, Hawkins thanked the Emperor for breathing apparatus.

Nearing the objective, the Storm troopers of the 101st slammed into the compound wall in a clatter of plate, forming up in good order for the entry.

When Sgt Granger confirmed that every man was present, Hawkins barked orders through the squad vox.

'Squad 2 provide covering fire, Squad 1 prep climbing gear.' His squad all knelt down and begun unspooling climbing rope from their belts, attaching the extending alloy hooks to the ends once they had enough slack while Squad 2 backed away from the wall into the rapidly clearing smoke, weapons raised, switching their targeters to thermal to cut through the remainder.

Hawkins heard the painfully loud crack of 12 hellguns firing in quick succession, cutting off the racket of stubber fire instantly.

Surging to his feet, Hawkins and the commandos of Squad 1 hurled their grappling lines over the damaged compound wall and tugged hard, each man starting to walk up the wall as soon as their hooks found purchase.

Trooper Seth reached the top first, pushing himself the extra mile, the unanswered bullet crater in his armour a stain on his honour.

His under barrel grenade launcher coughed as Hawkins hauled his armoured body over the parapet of the damaged wall and knelt down, raising his rifle in time to see a frag grenade detonate among 2 traitor guard. The men had been writhing on the ground in agony, foaming at the mouth as the gas worked its way through their lungs, a discarded heavy bolter at their feet.

The grenade flashed and shredded flesh, flak and furred greatcoat as it detonated, blasting body parts into the air in an expanding cloud of dirt and shrapnel.


	2. Chapter 2

Squad 1 formed up and dropped from the wall, leaving the lines in place to allow squad 2 to follow up. Separating into three 4 man "brick" formations they stalked off, weapon stocks rammed tightly into shoulders.

With Hawkins at the front, he and Seth faced forward while Haynes and Krabb watched the flanks.

The brick behind opened fire straight away as they advanced straight down the middle of the compound, suppressing any and all movement in windows with accurate fire as targets presented themselves.

A family, husband, wife and child attempted to cross the dirt track in front of them, faces covered by ragged scraps of their clothing in a vain attempt to escape the effects of the gas.

Hawkins and Seth drilled them, 2 shots apiece, hellguns cracking violently, fur lined clothes bursting into flame as bodies bereft of life thudded to the hard packed dirt.

Stepping over the smouldering corpses, Hawkins heard the vox crackle into life as his targeting reticule followed the movement of his weapon, tracking in small figure of 8 patterns to his front.

'Squad 2 complete boss, moving up behind you.' Sgt Granger's squad was inside the compound.

Hawkins moved his supporting hand to the mic at his throat 'Roger that, 1 minute to target.'

Somewhere up ahead the hydra turret boomed into life again, the quad barrelled monster tearing up at some unseen target, intense muzzle flash strobing into the night.

A guardsman burst from a doorway up ahead, antique autogun raised.

_Crack Crack_

2 simultaneous shots slammed him back through, missing most of his chest.

Squad 1 rounded a corner and looked down to the end of the narrow track.

There, surrounded by a hastily erected sandbag bunker and a rapidly rising pile of tinkling brass, the quad barrelled Hydra turret sprayed death into the air.

Its gunner leant back in his cradle seat, spinning the weapon round as he tracked whatever he thought he could see, the immense weapon fed by powered ammo feeds leading to 2 enormous ammo hoppers.

Hawkins could barely think over the din, the constant shooting felt like someone was squeezing his head with every burst.

'Somebody shut that bloody thing up!' He yelled over the rattle of automatic fire, unaware that a grenade was already sailing through the air, courtesy of Seth's launcher.

It impacted in-between the 2 left side cannon, blasting one barrel clean off and buckling one beyond repair. The sudden boom didn't affect the rate of fire however, and the weapon experienced a number of breech explosions as rounds found they had nowhere left to go.

The hoppers detonated with an ear splitting bang, tearing the oblivious gunner to pieces and scattering the weapon pit across the track.

'Good shot.' Hawkins remarked, suddenly aware of screams and las-blasts, accompanied by the sounds of shouting and doors being kicked in.

It seemed the Warhawks had decided to start securing the compound, keeping up their side of the plan, if a little late.

'Cheers boss.' Seth replied, already moving off, nearing the drab vox array building.

Approaching within 100 metres of the target, Squad 1 came under fire from a number of shooters on the roof, great-coated traitors wearing guard issue respirators, sneakily waiting in ambush until the Storm Troopers got close.

Squad 1 ran in its entirety across the open patch of dirt, lasbolts and hard rounds kicking up around them as they sought the dubious cover of the Vox building itself.

Squad 2 replied within seconds, laying down a withering hail of fire, punching holes through helmets and flak vests, causing the traitors to duck into cover lest they find themselves the unwilling owners of new orifices.

For the second time that day Squad 1 slammed into a wall, naturally falling into stack formation either side of the heavy door blocking their entrance.

In the Imperial Guard, an officer finds himself further and further away from the fight as he gains rank and experience, it seen as one of the perks of surviving that far and a necessity of command.

To a commando, it was all about the stack.

A new Storm Trooper started as rear man, cover man and setter of melta bombs.

As he gained experience he moved on to 3rd man, thrower of grenades after the door has blown.

Next came the 2nd man, weapon up, hand on the leader's shoulder, covering his blind spots.

And finally the lead man himself, the most dangerous position to be in, first into the fight, normally first to take a hit.

To a Storm Trooper officer, leading from anywhere else would be cowardice.

Krabb set the melta charge, stepping back and looking to the rear.

The charge reached atomic fusion in microseconds, melting the thick door into molten slag in the space of a breath, burning the air itself with its intensity.

Haynes threw a primed frag through the breach, patting Seth as soon as it was in.

Seth patted the shoulder of Hawkins as it detonated with a crump of overpressure and the 4 men moved as one, plunging into the darkness.

Hawkins' brick found themselves in a smoke filled corridor wide enough for 2 armoured commandos to walk abreast, Seth stepped up beside Hawkins as they stalked forward, calling out information to the bricks following up behind.

'Door left, door right, stairwell centre.'

Hawkins' brick ignored the threatening doorways, leaving the rooms to be cleared by the men hot on his heels, the commander making a beeline for the stairway.

_Hey diddle diddle straight up the middle_

Captain Hawkins heard explosions and bangs to his rear, the rooms being cleared as a cluster of guardsmen poured down the stairs, suddenly aware that their haven was breached.

The men were dressed identically, fur lined greatcoats and helmets over off-white guard flak, their rugged faces sporting thick beards to a man.

They began firing wildly as they descended the stairs, caught by surprise at the speed of the Imperial assault.

When the Valkyries had first been spotted by the wall sentries on the approach, not one of the defenders had been expecting to fight a close quarter gun battle within 3 minutes.

The first 2 men jerked spasmodically as Las bolts slammed into them, punching great holes clean through torsos, the bodies' rag-dolling the final few steps. The men behind couldn't stop themselves and tripped on their erstwhile comrades, one man's helmet liner catching fire as he took a grazing shot to the head.

The next two skidded painfully on their rumps and crouched low, trying to see below the lip of the low ceiling to get a clear shot at the commandos advancing on them.

Hawkins and trooper Seth spat Violet death at them, firing rapid single shots into the press of bodies trying to get down, get out of the way, get into cover.

At least a dozen great-coated guardsmen pushed past the fresh corpses of their comrades, several vaulting the banister as their battle buddies returned fire.

Las bolts whipped up the corridor, ricocheting off the walls, floor and ceiling, the traitor's haste making their fire inaccurate.

One shot ricocheted off the floor and flew straight up, shattering the lume-strip above Hawkins and his men.

Shards of shattered plastek rattled off their armour as the corridor plunged into darkness, illuminated by the erratic flickers of multiple las weapons.

Sheer weight of fire alone saw a number of shots get through, a Las bolt hit Hawkins in the abdominal plate and another spanged off his helmet, Seth took a bolt to the thigh armour, deadening the muscle there and Krabb took a hard round to the shoulder, the bullet thunking into the meat between plates, Krabb responding with a sharp intake of breath yet maintained discipline, not slowing his relentless advance.

The commandos saw the world in a coating of green, the night setting of their targeter monocles lighting the enemy up with bright outlines, las muzzles betraying their positions as they tried to huddle behind what meagre cover remained in the tight corridor.

Hawkins' Hellgun whined as it cycled dry, the commando shouting 'loading' over the cacophony of weapons fire as he dropped to a knee, calmly ejecting the used power cell and retrieving a fresh one from his chest webbing.

Krabb was standing behind him and immediately began firing over his leader's head into the mass of panicking guardsmen, ensuring that there was never a lull in the rate of fire from the Storm Trooper's guns.

'Back in.' Yelled Hawkins as the fresh cell slid home, prompting Krabb to cease fire as the commander rose to his feet again, cycling his weapon at a manic rate to suppress and kill the enemy.

The brick proceeded in this fashion to the bottom of the stairwell, which they advanced up in bounding cover, 2 men moving at a time with Seth reaching the top and priming another frag grenade, slotting the bulky cartridge into his launcher.

Without warning, a hulking Guardsman barreled through the doorway into Seth, grasping for his weapon, pressing it into the smaller man's carapace. Before Hawkins could get off a shot the junior Storm Trooper had rolled his shoulders and flicked his hips, launching the enemy soldier down the stairs and into the Captain.

The Storm Trooper commander was hurled off his feet by the impact, losing grip on his weapon but maintaining presence of mind enough to roll with the impact, landing on top of the fuming traitor.

Hawkins' machete cleared its back sheath and chopped down into the Guardsman's head, over and over, hacking his skull apart and spraying Hawkins in viscera. He didn't have time to wait for the power cell to cycle-up so the heavy blade alone did the work, turning the traitor's head into so much mulch.

Breathing heavily, Hawkins called up Squad 2 as Seth regained his position and pumped another frag through the doorway with a comforting thump of concussive force, allowing Granger and his men to Echelon through his squad and clear the next floor in a hail of grenades and las-blasts.

This relentless momentum continued and soon the entire compound was clear, devoid of traitor guard life, their departing souls regretting standing up for concepts such as "independence" and "freedom".

The Imperium tolerates these things in the same manner an apex predator tolerates his prey fighting back, Hawkins mused as he looked from the roof over the vanquished compound.

Major Shiba reported minimal casualties through the company vox, though he did mention a distressingly heavy number of civilian casualties in the Storm Trooper's wake.

Hawkins told him to take it up with command and cut the transmission off, making his way to the summit of the mountain as his men set demolition charges around the super structure of the immense vox array.

Hawkins looked out across the mountain ranges as the thunderous blast signalled the end of the Enemy's long range vox capability, synchronised with several other explosions visible atop the dark peaks of neighbouring mountaintops miles away.

He looked down into the valley far below to the North, to the many lights of the traitor held cities, barracks, ammo dumps and supply depots. With no way for them to communicate with forces in adjacent valleys, the war just got a whole lot easier.

Textbook strategy, divide and conquer.

Hawkins smiled as he removed his helmet.

* * *

><p>The quarters on the troop ship were a converted storeroom. Hammocks were stretched out between aisles of shelving, kit was stowed on the shelves themselves in neat piles, and the stores held there previously removed and kept in the ships main hold.<p>

The Storm Troopers had cleared a space at the end of the room for recreation and training drills and at present were sat upon upturned ammo crates, observing cleaning rites on their weapons.

The commander of the Harikoni 405th, a Colonel Amione Sulken, leader of the 405th for many years and an officer of fine reputation, suggested that the 101st billet separately from the rest of the troops, to avoid any animosity generating as a result of their unusual qualities.

Hawkins had to agree.

Colonel Sulken strode in now, resplendent in his immaculate dress uniform, his highly shined boots clicking on the plasteel grating as he entered the store room.

The room smelled of gun oil and sweat, the men being forced to wait until debriefing before they could administer themselves, this didn't bother them initially, as weapons were always priority after an operation, but they had been waiting for some hours now with no word.

Coupled with being pulled off world to re-join the fleet, which was a highly irregular act in itself, Hawkins could sense the men getting annoyed.

Captain Hawkins looked up from the barrel lens he was attending to and regarded the officer.

He had never seen Sulken dressed in dress rig before, the man was usually a practical soul, more than happy to carry out daily duties in fatigues and field cap.

This was unusual.

Captain Hawkins made no attempt to rise from his perch, being under direct command of the Commissariat, Sulken's rank meant nothing to him.

Instead he merely inclined his head, his countenance expectant and more than a little irritated at being kept waiting so long.

The Captain was stripped to the waist, the upper half of the flight suit left to hang as he aired his stinking torso.

His skin, like those of his men, was pale. This wasn't the pale of a spacer who rarely saw the sun, his skin tone was practically grey, unnaturally so.

His body was lean and well-muscled, product of the process used to create him and it was covered with scars earned in battle, the largest of which was a jagged line of tissue that circled his entire right shoulder, indicating the surgery to graft a freshly grown arm onto his wounded frame.

He lost the original to an Ork warboss 5 years before, the green bastard bit it clean off below the shoulder as Hawkins rammed his bolt pistol down it's throat, ending it's existence in a hail of mass reactive rounds.

Hawkins' head was topped with tightly cropped grey hair and his face was remarkably free of scars, the commander's entire head marred only by a single incision scar on his temple, it followed the line of his skull horizontally and ended with the missing tip of one ear.

He and his men shared milky white eyes, entirely lacking irises or pupils and tattoos of black ink adorning their left cheeks indicating name, number, blood group and rank all topped with a tiny Aquila.

The message they gave was clear, _these men are somebody's property._

The Captain was just about to enquire about any updates when 2 more men followed the Colonel in.

The first was a barrel chested giant standing ramrod straight, dressed in the characteristic black storm coat and peaked cap of his trade, a silver skull grinning menacingly from the centre of the headgear.

The face below it was craggy and lined, a permanent scowl on the man's features making him appear as if carved from granite.

His right hand rested on the bolt pistol holstered at his hip and he surveyed the room around him with some distaste.

Captain Hawkins bawled 'Commissar on deck' and stood to attention followed a split second later by his Storm Troopers.

Hawkins saluted his commanding officer.

Colonel-Commissar Armitage was a rare breed, serving with distinction in the Storm Trooper regiment, then as a Commissar for 30 years before combining both when tasked to command the 101st, achieving both political and military rank.

The man commanded over 500 of the albino commandos throughout the campaign theatre, spread out among different battlegroups in platoon sized elements. He was a very busy man and to see him in person was a surprise, to say the least.

The last man was dressed in similar attire to the Colonel-commissar, a storm coat of deepest brown as opposed to black, with black gloves and jackboots completing his plain outfit. The man had an ageless face, he could have been 30 or 300 and his slightly receding black hair was neatly oiled back from his forehead in the style favoured by high born guard officers and noblemen.

He carried no visible weapons, indeed his only adornment was a small rosette pinned to his coat lapel, the colour of deepest crimson and sporting a Stylised "I" symbol in its centre.

'At ease Captain.' Armitage boomed in a voice used to being obeyed without question, before turning to face Colonel Sulken.

'That will be all, Colonel. Our guest and I have business to intend to.'

Sulken, not one used to being dismissed so lightly, was having none of it.

'I have an issue to raise with your men, Colonel-Commissar.' He did not pause to allow for a response. 'Major Shribe and a number of his men were witness to the unlawful slaughter of Imperial citizens by your unit on its last operation. They offered no resistance, yet were gunned down without mercy. What do you have to say for yourself, Captain?'

All eyes turned to the Storm Trooper officer.

'They were harbouring traitors, they were traitors by association.'

'They were held against their will!' Sulken snapped. 'We are here to liberate the loyal citizens of this world, not butcher them. A good officer needs to know when to show Compassion as well as strength, Captain Hawkins. You and your abhuman freaks are akin to mindless automatons. ' He spat.

'Compassion is weakness. Weakness is death.' Hawkins replied flatly.

He thought he caught the ghost of a smile on the Colonel-Commissar's face.

Sulken fumed. He opened his mouth, about to launch into a tirade of insults when another voice spoke, less bombastic than either of the officers yet full of authority.

'We're done here, leave.'

The man in the brown coat said, tipping his head towards the door.

Sulken's eyes flashed and for the slightest moment he looked like he might protest, then he stormed out of the store room in a jingle of ceremonial plate and medals.

Hawkin's sent trooper Stahl to close the heavy bulkhead door behind the Colonel with a nod of the head, allowing what followed to be said in privacy.

'At ease, men.' The Colonel-commissar said, and the platoon of Storm Troopers visibly relaxed.

'You spoke like a true believer, Captain.' The words came from the brown coat wearing man, that same quiet voice demanding attention as he stepped forward to address the men.

'I am a true believer, Lord Inquisitor.'

'Very observant.' The agent of the holy Ordos replied with a tip of the head, tapping his rosette with a gloved finger.

'What are you?' he blurted suddenly, catching Hawkins off-guard.

_What are you? _A bizarre question, thought the Captain, one with many possible answers when given without context or preamble.

He went with the most obvious answer.

'I am the Emperor's loyal servant, my Lord.'

The Inquisitor's face remained unreadable, his expression neutral as he continued to speak in his soft voice, the sound totally lacking any intonation or emotional subtext.

'Be more specific.'

Hawkins responded immediately. 'I am O-762 Captain Hawkins, Commander 1st platoon, 101st Storm Trooper Battalion.'

The Inquisitor responded again, as if anticipating this answer.

'That's who you are. I asked _what_ are you?'

Hawkins frowned and looked around at his men, catching the subtle physical signs of agitation that ordinary humans would miss when looking upon eyes of blank whiteness. Whatever this test was, Hawkins was clearly failing it.

Sergeant Granger gave him the slightest nod of encouragement, a barely imperceptible movement.

He looked straight ahead once more, and gave his reply.

'I am part of the Afriel Strain. Genetically engineered clone soldier, bred to fight and die in the Emperor's holy wars. I am a weapon, lord.'

At this, the Inquisitor allowed himself a small smile before replying, this time with fire in his eyes and an edge of zeal in his voice.

'Exactly! You are stronger, faster and braver than any natural born soldier, clones of our greatest heroes. And you men in particular, exceptional by even those standards, the peak of human ability were chosen to form this most elite Unit. A Unit unlike any seen before, a "Special Force" some might say.'

The Inquisitor was becoming increasingly animated, hands gesticulating with chopping motions as he went on.

'And this force was devised by me, some years ago for one task. A joint venture, built by the Adepts of Mars, souls hardened by the righteous Commissariat, armed by the Guard and given purpose by the holy Ordos themselves. Each one of these organisations has a common goal in mind. Each of them prepared to put aside differences for this mission.'

'You do not realise it men, but you are part of a much bigger plan, one that is about to be set in motion. If it succeeds you will be the first of many, entire divisions of "Special Forces" all focused on the same task.'

The inquisitor paused, looking at each Storm Trooper individually before resuming his speech in a quieter, conspiratory tone.

'Do you trust my word, Captain Hawkins? Do you trust that the Emperor enacts his will through the Holy Inquisition?'

'Without question, my lord.'

'Good. Then believe me when I say we are about to embark on a mission of utmost importance. One that must remain utterly covert. It will seem to any higher authority that we acting out against the Imperium, but I assure you that we are not.'

He paused again to allow this information to sink in.

'An enemy exists within our own ranks that must be purged. We must be poised to respond to this threat whenever it rears its ugly head, and even if you succeed the cost of souls will be high.'

'Are you willing to do what needs to be done, Captain?'

Hawkins didn't hesitate. He figured that anything endorsed by the Colonel-Commissar would be a legitimate operation. The man had sweat blood for the Imperium his entire life.

'Anything for the Emperor, my lord.'

'I was hoping you'd say that. Colonel-Commissar?' The inquisitor stepped back and leant against the wall, content that his part was done.

Armitage boomed, his familiar voice filling the space of the entire storage room with its power.

'Phase one is already underway. 2nd Platoon has already taken the bridge and muffled vox access to the rest of the fleet, they are also taking care of the Astropath. Your first task is to eliminate all 405th Harikoni personnel on board. Deck by deck clearance, I'll leave the particulars up to you, Got it?'

Hawkin's mind was reeling, but his outer composure remained one of calm.

'Roger that sir.'

'Good.' The Storm Trooper Colonel replied. 'Gear up, we move in 5.'

Hawkins and his men moved as one, silently re-assembling their weapons with practised movements before helping each other into their matt black armour rigs.

Hawkin closed the zipper on his brown drab flightsuit.

_What in Throne's name is going on?_ He thought as he wriggled his hands into his shooting gloves, flexing the visible grey tips of his fingers, hearing the worn grox hide palms creak under the movement.

He didn't even know that 2nd Platoon were on board the troop carrier, let alone the fact they were in control of the bridge at that very moment. The Colonel-Commissar must have brought them along with him.

_What the hell have we been dropped into?_


	3. Chapter 3

Fighting over 2000 Guardsman, half of the entire 405th, with just under 50 men had proven to be somewhat anti-climactic. Hawkins thought this to himself with a cold detachment as he shot a crying Major Shiba in the face, coring his skull with a neatly cauterised hole courtesy of a hellgun.

The other half of the regiment was still deployed on the surface of Charybdis, making the mutinous task considerably easier.

Hawkins' plan went like this.

As soon as the platoon was in full rig the Captain hailed the leader of 2nd platoon, Lieutenant Tuomas, on the vox.

He instructed the lieutenant to simulate a void breach from his position at the bridge throughout all accommodation decks, causing heavy bulkheads to slam in place at either end of each dormitory and the atmosphere to vent in order to reduce the risk of explosive decompression.

As the troopship was on night cycle, most of the Harikonis present were bunking down for the night, with a token number of squads on ship patrol.

As these men, shaken awake by the slamming of heavy plasteel doors, suffocated in agony, 1st and 2nd platoon divided the decks between them and prowled the corridors in kill-team formation, gunning down unsuspecting Guardsmen like dogs.

A small group inevitably formed a defence, led by Colonel Sulken and Major Shiba, and this pocket of resistance fought a fighting withdrawal over the next 2 hours.

Captain Hawkins was happy to keep his forces at arm's length, slowly herding the Colonel's group into a lower cargo hold rather than rush them and risk heavy casualties.

The plan had been to void the hold and eject the remainder into space, but the wily Colonel instructed a munitions loader servitor to manually hold the bulkhead open, it's genhanced bulk straining against the closing mechanism with heavy gauge hydraulic pincers.

Hawkins had led the inevitable clearance, advancing behind volleys of grenades, clearing every inch of the crowded cargo compartment, his Afriel Strain blasting individuals and pairs of drop troopers as they maintained a disciplined retreat to the outer bulkhead.

With nowhere to go, Colonel Sulken had ordered his last men to wire the immense bay door with demolition charges, intent to take out as many "heretics" as he could before they died.

A frag grenade, pitched perfectly by Corporal Gideon, commander of Hawkins' 2nd brick within 1st platoon, put an end to that plan.

Shredded by the explosion, Colonel Sulken's corpse was little more than a wet step to be cleared as Hawkins rounded the corner, spraying the 2 men setting the demo charges with precision bolts of incandescent violet light.

The last survivor of the 405th Harikoni Warhawks aboard the ship was Major Shribe, on his knees, gutshot by shrapnel, his fatigues stained with dark blood.

With tears in his eyes, he looked up to see the hot muzzle of a stumpy hellgun levelled at his face and uttered a single word.

'Why?'

'For the Emperor.' Hawkins replied as he pulled the trigger. 

* * *

><p>Hawkins was on the bridge, brooding. He sat on the command throne, himself and Trooper Krabb pulling their watch, Colonel-Commissar Armitage had deemed it necessary to keep a constant vigil over their indentured ship's crew, lest they try anything stupid.<p>

Accompanying them were the Inquisitor's motley crew of henchmen, just short of half a dozen devoted followers of various types, pledging their allegiance to coin or the Emperor, probably both.

A tall, handsome man that looked to be in his late 30s stood to the left of the throne, wearing black gloves and boots, with a long brown trench coat covering his discreet body armour seemingly in parody of his master's outfit, the elegant lines of a custom autogun slung across his back.

His skin was tanned and swarthy and his head topped with a shock of silver hair.

Next to him stood a bullet-headed monster, his shaven dome nearly touching the ceiling of the bridge. He stood attired in an armoured bodyglove decorating in swirling patterns of bright colour, a pair of bolt pistols holstered on his hips and a wickedly curved blade sheathed down his back.

The third man was an anomaly, wearing an old Storm Trooper rig, complete with full carapace and hellgun, albeit of an obsolete design. His fatigue cap still bore the symbol of the Commissariat in the form of a stylised death's head though he alone wore a crimson sash around his bicep, observing correct protocol for Inquisition indentured service. The man's face was covered in holy scripture, the tiny tattoos physical evidence of his faith.

Lurking in the shadows behind them were the death cultists. 2 mute sisters, raised on a world of warring tribes, the pair had been raised to worship the Emperor through bloodshed and had raised their ritualistic killing to an art form. They wore shabby looking synthetic catsuits, with blades strapped to seemingly every spare bit of room on their bodies.

Hawkins looked at this cross section of humanity and felt nothing but contempt.

He and his men needed not coin, nor admiration from their master, nor ritual or countless empty words. He believed they would be judged by their actions alone. Bred to fight, armed and armoured by Emperor sanctioned organisations, given purpose by those same organisations now, Hawkins' maintained an unshakeable belief that his actions were_ right._

Nothing else mattered.

He thought of Major Shiba, pictured his tearful visage before Hawkins ended his mortal existence, and felt nothing. The God-Emperor willed it, so it was done.

Hawkins looked away from the henchmen and focused, shaking himself out of his bitter introspection to concentrate on the operation thus far.

Making their escape had been easy enough. No communications, vox or otherwise were allowed to transmit from the troopship during the takeover, so nobody in the invasion fleet was wise to the mutiny happening under their noses.

Vox hails went unanswered as the fleet flagship _Imperious Destructor _detected an energy spike, the fat transport fired up its warp drives and made a full burn run out of system.

The Ponderous cruiser fired a lance strike as the troopship made translation, brilliant beams of searing energy distorting wildly as they punched through the translation point, missing the mutinous vessel by microseconds.

The inquisitor's presence in system had never been recorded, nor the presence of his sleek black ship, currently docked in the transporter, or its other passengers in the form of a platoon of Afriel Strain Commandos.

As far as the Imperium was concerned, the Harikoni warhawks had turned traitor and fled the warzone. One half-regiment from a reclamation force of millions. In the grander scheme of things, it was not worth the effort of going after them.

General Cyleus Mastaiff, ground commander of the Guard forces on Charybdis, merely shook his head at the news before ordering a round of summary executions of potential mutineers amongst the ranks.

The regimental Commissars were positively ecstatic.

Now Hawkins stared out of the viewport at his target area, a small blue and green world at the other end of the sub-sector.

Horstland was a productive, if tiny world. Its main tithed goods were foodstuffs and various mineral deposits, and its governor was a proud and fair leader, an ex-Guard General by the name of Faust.

Its position on the spiral arm meant it was of practically zero strategic importance, and it had no history of cult issues or insurgency in the 2000 years under Imperial rule.

Though open with his knowledge of the planet, its topography, history and cultures, Inquisitor Fellon was less forthcoming about the details of their mission. He would not divulge the nature of the enemy, strengths, locations, anything.

It was most frustrating.

In the weeks of warp travel, the Colonel-Commissar had drilled his men severely in all natures of close quarters battle. Ranges were set up with Servitor targets, the lobotomised serfs armoured in the most peculiar garb of heavy ceramite plates. Emphasis had been placed firmly on achieving headshots out to 100 metres, on the move, from vehicles, against mobile targets, the standard was punishingly high.

The men had proved themselves capable, mastering every new scenario thrown at them, though Hawkins was dismayed at the reduction in hand to hand combat drills demanded of them.

In the short periods of down time, Hawkins had worked out the most probable scenarios for the coming mission.

Due to the size of his force he could not fight a protracted battle and lack of fleet support ruled out anything on a planetary scale.

Cults and rebels were not a problem, so that left 2 options in Hawkins' mind. A strike Operation against a static target, maybe an assassination or a snatch and grab, or a reaction force against xenos raiders, mounting hit and run attacks to disrupt their operations.

As they were focusing on close range firefights and shunning hand to hand, Hawkins thought this the more likely scenario as many hated xenos races were exceptional fighters, outclassing humans many times over.

His men had mounted such an operation against the Deviant Eldar before with much success, their lightly armoured, rapid troops and vehicles not faring too well against hellguns and autocannon when caught in ambush.

Hawkins smiled at the memory. He dearly hoped it was Dark Eldar.

'Space Marines.' Inquisitor Fellon said without warning. It was the first thing he said as he strode into the packed strategium of the transporter.

All 48 grey skinned Storm Troopers were crammed inside, plus Valkyrie and Vulture crews. Several chairs and a small table usually used by officers to rest their caffeine recepticles had to be removed to make room.

It was a personal preference of the CO, he demanded that everyone involved in an operation be at orders, so every man of every rank understood his place in the grander scheme.

Such radical thinking was what got Armitage noticed by the Inquisition.

Colonel-Commissar Armitage was not present, as he had taken the Inquisitor's retinue and left to prepare what he said was 'the next phase of the operation'

Hawkins looked to his left at Sgt Granger as Fellon spoke, who raised an eyebrow at him in a way that expressed exactly what Hawkins was thinking.

_What? _

The agent of the Ordos continued unsatisfied by the looks on the faces of his captive audience, that his opening statement lacked its desired effect.

Inquisitor Fellon clearly had a taste for drama, using his manner to manipulate those he viewed as simpletons into doing what he wanted.

Each and every Afriel Strain Commando was a clone of a great Imperial hero and had the minds to match. They were not cowed by the Inquisitor's manner.

'2000 years ago, the native human population of Horstland were Godless heathens, outside of the grasp of our beloved Imperium.

They were a heavily militarised society, indeed they had to be. Horstland was the victim of sporadic and brutally violent raids by Eldar pirates, each one responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths and missing persons, each one worse than the last.'

A joint operation against the hated Dark Eldar, alongside the mighty warriors of the Adeptus Astartes.

That had to be it, Hawkins decided. The Inquisition was setting up a covert anti-xenos organisation.

_Why would they need our help?_

'It was during one of these raids that the Battle-Brothers of the Bellators Crimson chapter intervened.'

Inquisitor Fellon waved a hand over the small holo-projector situated in the centre of the Strategium. A shrivelled servitor, fused to the side of the device manipulated the machines controls, bringing up a shimmering projection of an Astartes warrior.

The immense transhuman form rotated in front of them, the curves and brute nature of his formidable crimson battle-plate rendered in exquisite detail. Next to the Astartes figure rotated the silhouette of a regular man for scale comparison. The dark figure was dwarfed by the armoured giant, looking positively pathetic.

'They slaughtered the xenos. Upon witnessing the power wielded by the Astartes, the Governments of Horstland heralded the Space Marines as their saviours and welcomed the Imperium with open arms. It was one of the most peaceful reclamations on record.'

'Since that event, the Bellators Crimson have used Horstland as one of their recruitment worlds, and maintain a constant squad level presence as a goodwill gesture, reminding the citizens of the remote planet that they are under protection should the alien scum ever return.'

The Space Marine projection disappeared, replaced by the image of a squat, boxy building situated in the middle of a city. It was 3 stories high with a flat roof, dominated by a landing pad upon which a deep red Thunderhawk sat. The walls were metres thick bare rockrete and main entrance was a ridiculously heavy looking adamantium blast door, above which a vast stone Aquila loomed menacingly.

Hawkins had seen one such building before, when mounted at a staging area on a world under the protection of the fearsome Black Templars.

It was a chapter keep of the Space Marines.

'This.' The inquisitor said, pointing at the hololith, his voice low with the gravity of the situation.

'This is your target.' 

* * *

><p><strong>Horstland<strong>

Brother-Sergeant Alexiel grunted as he smashed the training servitor aside, parrying its vicious thrust and clubbing it to the ground with the silent teeth of his deactivated chainsword.

Sensing movement in his periphery, he lashed out with a foot to the left and cross blocked to the right with his blade, knocking back one of the combat cyborgs to clear room as he hit the other with a spinning back slash, throwing it into a wall with the force of the blow and causing the stricken man-machine to power down.

They had both attacked simultaneously, machine logic determining the best way to catch him off guard, though they couldn't match his superhuman reflexes.

Alexiel barked out a laugh as the last servitor tried to clamber to its feet, kneeing it in the faceplate with a crunch and finishing it with a downward smash of his sword pommel.

He could swear the damn things were getting smarter.

The big Sergeant was about to reset the machines to a higher difficulty when a voice interrupted him.

'Brother-Sergeant Alexiel.'

Battle-Brother Fleynt stood in the doorway in full plate, his flamer held in a loose grip, relaxed but ready.

'Speak, brother.' Alexiel responded, exiting the training cage and taking a towel from a waiting serf, wiping down his enhanced bulk as his second in command continued.

'We have picked up several craft on an approach vector on long range Auspex, Imperial Guard pattern, 2 Vulture pattern gunships and 4 Valkyrie pattern assault craft, sir.'

Alexiel creased his brow, deep furrows appearing in his slab like features as he formed the frown. They wouldn't be local PDF fliers, Fleynt would not think it worth mentioning.

'Are they responding to hails?'

Fleynt had anticipated this. 'No, Brother-Sergeant. They are broadcasting Identity tags of Inquisition level authority though, sir. In addition, they are approaching at cruising speed, indicating non-hostile intentions.'

Alexiel assessed the situation in an instant. '6 craft is a bit much for an Inquisitor's retinue. Whatever they are here for they have danger in mind.'

'Standby all personnel for battle readiness, full armour. Send a pilot to warm the Thunderhawk's spirit just in case and send Brothers Araden and Skurn to guard it.'

'Aye brother.' And with that, Fleynt turned to leave.

'Fleynt.' Alexiel called out, stalling the younger man in his tracks.

'Yes, Brother-Sergeant?' he said as he turned back to face his superior.

'You may think I am being over cautious, but I have worked with the Ordos before. They are not to be trusted.' He said firmly, shaking his head as he did so.

'I didn't say a word.' Fleynt remarked as he left.


	4. Chapter 4

Racing along in the Valkyrie, nearly skimming the tops of buildings, their gothic grandeur flashing past in a blur below, Hawkins recalled the facts that had transpired.

'You seek to replace the Astartes?' Hawkins stated, part question, part observation after taking a moment to consider the evidence and regain his bearings after the shocking nature of their intended victims was revealed.

'Careful Captain.' The Inquisitor warned.

'We already tread a precarious path, you should remember your place before uttering damning comments like that.'

'With respect, Inquisitor.' Hawkins shot back 'You are as damned as the rest of us if this fails, so cut the shit and answer the question.'

Several of the Afriel Strain troopers murmured their assent. Fellon looked taken aback for all of a split second before replying, smoothly maintaining his mask of effortless composure.

'Very well. Here it is. We don't want to replace Space Marines, they have their place in the grand scheme of things.' He hesitated, and then let out a sigh before carrying on.

'We are simply afraid of them. We can't control them, they answer to nobody but their own obscure hierarchies and recent trends suggest they will be as much a threat as a boon in the future.'

He waved out a hand in a broad gesture, encompassing every Storm Trooper with his sweep.

'This is an experiment, an exercise to ascertain whether an alternative can be found.

An affordable, _controllable_ alternative.

It was decided at the highest level that the alternative be tested against the Astartes themselves to verify its credibility.'

Hawkins pondered this for a moment, before Sgt Granger piped up to his left.

'Logistics, lord. This is about resources.'

The Inquisitor smiled, a mixed expression, part infuriation that his chosen minions had seen through him so easily and part pride that he had made the right choice.

'We are fighting an eternal war across a galaxy wide frontage, Sergeant. _Everything_ is about logistics.' 

* * *

><p>And so it was.<p>

Hawkins leaned out of the side of the assault carrier, allowing the hot wind to whip his exposed face as he glared up at the sun, his helmet visor polarising automatically.

No re-breather this time round, there wasn't a gas in the entire Guard Arsenal that could stop a warrior of the Chapters. As a result he took a moment to enjoy the breeze in this otherwise sub-tropical climate.

He made the decision to attack at midday, when Horstland's white dwarf sun was highest in the sky.

Attacking at night would have been pointless, Space Marine optics were superior to those used by the Storm Troopers.

Along with their weapons, their armour, their bodies and minds. Hawkins supressed a sigh.

At least the training made sense now.

'A Hellgun shot will punch straight through Marine Battleplate if the hit is true.'

Inquisitor Fellon told them.

'But the wound would be likened to a pinprick to one of them. You have to aim for the head to be ensured a kill.'

Hawkins had reiterated this to his men during rehearsals, running one last firing rite to drill it home.

The hit rate had been encouraging, though whether it would hold true under combat was always a different matter.

'1 minute to target.' The pilot's voiced crackled in his ear, snapping him from his replay of events.

He slumped back down on the bench, noticing that this time the regular human door gunner didn't pass the hand signal down, his digits remaining firmly wrapped around the grips of his heavy bolter.

Hawkins put it down to nerves and passed the message himself.

Leaning out once again, the Captain peered out among the bustling streets of the Imperial city, seeking out the target.

There. Sitting alone, with a 20 metre perimeter gap all around, as though the other buildings were afraid to get close, was the chapter keep.

Hawkins squinted, prompting his targeter to adjust to maximum zoom, and he could make out the threatening raptor shape of the Thunderhawk, sat perched on its pad at the North end of the roof surrounded by low rockrete blast walls. Nigh on impenetrable looking Heavy gauge blast doors stood to the right of it, leading down into the building below.

As he got closer, 2 distinct shapes separated themselves from the lethal aerial predator, clad in plate the same colour as the Astartes transport.

They were both facing the approaching flight of guard craft, their postures wary, weapons in fists.

Hawkins felt terribly exposed, approaching at such a slow pace, but the ruse had to be maintained until the last possible moment.

Even as he formed the thought, a vulture pilot called 'Engaging' over the vox, both gunships accelerating to attack speed some 15 seconds out.

The Thunderhawk began to rise up from the pad, angling its nose sharply to meet the threat, but it was too late.

Cannons roared, missiles flew from hardpoints and the gunships dumped their entire payload in a few scant seconds of overwhelming firepower.

The powerful barrage slammed into the Thunderhawk, its fuselage bucking and rupturing in dozens of places as explosions blossomed over its armoured skin. One wing sheared off completely, the battlecannon turret collapsed in its housing before crashing forward onto the upper hull and rolling off to land heavily on the deck.

The proud Gunship seemed to hang in mid-air for a second, defiant in the face of such force, before it fell several metres and thudded into the landing pad with bone crunching force.

Valkyrie 2 pulled up alongside Valkyrie 1 as all door gunners opened up together, spewing a torrent of mass reactive tracer rounds at the Space Marines. The fire was inaccurate but it didn't matter, such was the volume of metal being flung at the 2 warriors.

Hawkins marvelled as they both snapped their bolters up as one, seemingly oblivious to the rounds detonating all around them, causing fist sized chunks of masonry to rebound from their armour, and opened fire in response.

Both Valkyries put on a burst of speed, causing the enemy bolts to drop short and decelerated hard, almost directly above the Space Marines.

As this happened, the rear 2 Valkyries peeled off and circled, holding station above the Keep entrance as Lieutenant Tuomas and his platoon rappelled down to the formidable bulkhead at the front of the building.

The gunner next to Hawkins finally found his mark, shell casings cascading down as he tracked with the heavy weapon, tearing a Battle-brother apart with punishing fire.

The Huge warrior Jerked and Spasmed, still returning fire until his legs were literally torn out from under him and he dropped to the deck, blood from dozens of wounds spattered around him.

Hawkins leapt from the gunship, controlling his rapid descent with one hand on the rappelling line as he fell, the other hand firing opportunist shots at the remaining Marine.

The Warrior, still not reacting to the heavy bolter fire even as a round blew a chunk out of his pauldron, started snapping off single shots at the assaulting Afriels pouring from Hawkins' Valkyrie.

Trooper Liushan of Corporal Gideon's brick took a bolt round to the midriff in mid descent which detonated in his guts, blowing his remains messily through the air as the severed line whipped back viciously.

Corporal Gideon himself took a round to the chest which exploded on impact, flinging him bodily 5 metres back just as his feet touched the ground where he lay, unmoving.

Trooper Haynes of Hawkins' own brick landed just in front of the giant warrior, who before he could act kicked out at Haynes' chest, snapping the line attached to his waist and sending the trooper skidding along the roof with an audible crack of bone.

Hawkins lay down covering fire as the rest of his men disconnected lines, laying into the heavily armoured Battle-Brother with automatic fire.

Las-bolts raked his powerful frame with little apparent effect as the Marine adjusted his aim upwards and let rip with a burst of auto-fire.

The rounds tore through the alloy hull of the gunship as though it was foil and shredded both door gunners, their flak offering no protection from the brutal assault. The body of the port side gunner pitched forward and fell, the ruined corpse left dangling in the air by his safety line, pulped innards pouring down onto the fighters below in a waterfall of offal.

Levelling his bolter again as human gore rained from above, the Space Marine aimed at Hawkins and was rewarded with a dry click as he pulled the trigger.

Without pause the warrior lunged with a growl, swinging the stock of the weapon in a blow that would have taken Hawkins' head off, had he not been suddenly jerked through the air.

Instead the blow grazed his helmet, denting it and causing the visor to spiderweb with cracks.

The shock of the blow felt to Hawkins like he had been hit in the face by Mag-train carriage, when a tiny voice in his head reminded him _you are still attached to your rappelling line_

The Valkyrie pilot had jinked to avoid the incoming bolter fire and was now extricating from the killing area, dragging Hawkins along the roof with him.

He struggled to reach his upper arm as he bounced painfully across the deck, retrieving his fighting knife in grasping fingers and slicing through the line at his waist in one awkward cut.

He bounced, rolled once, twice and landed on a knee, the armoured pad sparking as he skidded a final metre to a halt.

Every cell of his battered and bruised body screamed out in pain but he ignored it, tearing the useless helmet from his head and adjusting his targeter as he retrieved his now scuffed and battered Hellgun from its sling.

Raising it to his shoulder he saw that his men had killed the second Space Marine and were consolidating, forming a defensive circle around their casualties as designated men prepped their demolition charges.

It was deemed necessary to bring the powerful ordnance after Hawkins had assessed that Melta bombs would not penetrate the thick protection afforded by the Keep. He was loathe to use the damn things, but needs must.

Rising painfully, Hawkins ran over to his Platoon and was surprised to see Corporal Gideon on his feet, a crater in his chest plate and blood from numerous frag wounds pouring down his face.

He caught Hawkins' eye and gave him the thumbs up, then pointed to a prone form 5 metres away.

Trooper Haynes was on his back, gasping for air. Krabb held his hand as he struggled, failing to breathe through 2 ruptured lungs, the result of the savage kick received from the massive Crimson warrior.

'Can we do anything for him?' Hawkins asked Krabb, who shook his head.

'Both lungs are gone, a chest drain would just prolong the suffering.'

Hawkins nodded. Lamentation would come later, now they couldn't afford to lose momentum.

'Go now with the Emperor, trooper Haynes.' Hawkins said, Haynes stopped struggling and with a massive effort of will, nodded his head.

The Captain shot him in the face and patted Krabb on the arm forcefully.

'Move.' The Storm Trooper commander said to Krabb with a tip of the head, at which the Trooper jumped up and took his allotted position, his face set in a grimace of determination.

Losses were to be expected. At 2 troopers dead for 2 Space Marines, Hawkins was surprised they hadn't taken more.

A thunderous blast signalled 2nd platoon making entry, smoke poured onto the roof from the Southern Wall as the entire building shook.

'ST-1 this is ST-2 Actual. Entry made, over.'

Hawkins thumbed his throat mic. 'ST-1 actual, right behind you, out.'

Sgt Granger yelled 'Cover' as Hawkins slammed a fresh cell into his Hellgun before hitting the dirt and covering his head, being sure to keep his mouth open to counter overpressure.

The Demolition charge roared, taking out the roof entrance and most of the adjoining stairwell in a thunderclap of destruction. Hawkins felt the pressure wave compress his guts as a cloud of dust and debris showered around them, clattering to the deck in a solid downpour.

Hawkins was on his feet as the rubble still fell, rallying his men into assault formations before dropping through the dusty hole into the unknown, all the while repeating one phrase in his head like a mantra.

_Aim for the head. Aim for the head. Aim for the head._

* * *

><p>The fall was longer than expected.<p>

Hawkins felt a stab of panic just as he hit the floor, his knees screaming in agony as he absorbed the impact, rolling with it and pushing onto his feet.

'Watch out, it's a big drop' He sent on the squad vox as another commando crashed to the ground behind him with a grunt.

The inside of the chapter keep was full of smoke and dust left by the demo charge, weak lume strips barely visible to each flank, marking the line of the walls.

Hawkins coughed as he switched to thermal, all the while advancing South cautiously as fellow Commandos landed with curses behind him.

A hazy outline stumbled out from somewhere to the left, about 30 metres up, a human.

Hawkins felt the air distortion as a violet bolt whipped past, dropping the figure with a strangled gasp.

'Chapter serfs.' Granger said as he stalked past, his squad filing up behind him in a loose formation to take up positions past their commander.

Muffled gunfire erupted from beneath them, rumbling throughout the keep like the birth sound of an angry god.

'-t-1…..ST-2…tual, heavy…..stance…king casualtie…over.'

The vox was getting heavy interference, Hawkins struggled to make out what Tuomas was saying. He put it down to the thick stone floors and walls of the old building blocking the signal.

'Roger that ST-2, fight on through we will link up as discussed, out.'

More and more Serfs came stumbling from side corridors, some armed and firing blindly into the dust, swearing loud oaths to the chapter and the Emperor.

2nd Squad engaged them en masse, a cacophony of overlapping Hellgun blasts tearing the robed adepts apart, their hazy white outlines falling to the ground as Hawkins observed through his targeting monocular.

Serfs had been anticipated as had a number of indentured Armsmen, the number of Astartes too small to mount an effective defence of the keep.

From the size of the facility, Hawkins had estimated no more than 50 men at arms, with nearly as many again in terms of support staff for the Battle-Brothers.

Hawkins yelled to Granger over the din of multiple weapons discharges '2nd Squad continue south and clear this floor, my Squad will descend to the second floor and link up with 2 Platoon.'

'Roger that boss, stay safe out there.'

Granger laughed and clapped him on the shoulder before moving off with his brick, shouting orders and snapping off shots at the stream of Chapter Serfs that were now advancing on them.

The Storm Troopers descended the stairwell in good order, pairs covering each other until they broke clean into the corridor below.

Clear of the smoke, the Troopers under Hawkins' command felt that calling it a corridor did not really do it justice, as they scanned around, looking for targets.

The area ahead was wide, easily enough for 5 Astartes warriors to walk abreast and its length stretched the entire length of the building, some 200 metres, with Doorways leading off its sides into offices and storerooms.

Everything was oversized to Astartes proportions, from doors to the cases full of tomes and trophies that lined the walls, even the unusually high ceiling. It made the Storm Troopers appear akin to children exploring a haunted hab block, cautiously probing the building's interior, wary that something could jump out at them any second.

The first shot crashed past Hawkins and smacked Trooper Ahiga in the face just below the visor, the las-bolt obliterating the front of his skull and whipping his head back, causing him to fall into a lifeless heap.

Before he had hit the ground Hawkins was firing, his men joining in a heartbeat later, drowning out his shout of 'Contact!' and saturating the air with supercharged bolts as they hit the deck.

The enemy had caught them in the open and without cover, while they hunkered behind emergency blast fortifications that had been hastily dragged into place across the corridor.

The men were too exposed. Left in the open they would be chopped apart by accurate fire from a disciplined enemy, Hawkins had to get them into cover.

Remaining in the prone position, Hawkins ordered the rest of his men to dash to the nearest doorway on their left, affecting entry as they went, while Hawkins' brick gave covering fire.

Corporal Gideon sprang up and ran at a sprint, lasbolts crackling through the air close by, and shoulder charged the heavy wooden door blocking the way. The nco smashed through the door in a crash of splinters and skidded into a heap, troopers Slayter and Drummond following up behind him running past with rifles in the shoulder, methodically sweeping the room.

It was an administration office of some kind, probably a cogitation cell used by the human serfs to manage the logistical requirements of the keep. There were logic stacks neatly arranged around the boundaries of the office, hooked into servitors that sat at work stations, gazing into glowing datascreens, slack jawed and oblivious.

A pair of robed females screamed and rose from an upturned workstation, making to dash for an annex room, only to be gunned down by the charging Afriels.

Corporal Forl and his brick stormed into the room shortly after, running straight to the far wall and taking a knee.

Forl turned and faced back into the corridor, using the doorframe as cover while he shouted.

'Cadan, Bojan, get krak grenades on that wall, we need to flank these fraggers.'

'Roger that.' One of his men replied, he couldn't tell which as he flipped to automatic and sprayed shots into the men taking cover further down the hall.

He hoped the interior walls weren't as robust as the outside of the building, then they would be done for.

* * *

><p>Hawkins exhaled as a bolt zipped millimetres from his head, and pulled the trigger.<p>

_Crack_

An Armsman's head snapped back, blood blooming in a fine mist from the crater in his face as the crimson armoured form disappeared from view.

Another las round plucked at the right elbow of his flight suit, causing a potent stinging sensation as the bolt burnt the skin there in its passage.

_Crack_

Another Armsman fell, having raised up above the barrier just high enough to receive a Hellgun shot through the sternum of his flak, flinging him onto his back.

Hawkins' brick stood their ground, lying in the open and returning controlled fire while their comrades re-located.

Seth was bleeding profusely from a wound in his shoulder and one of Krabb's legs was soaked in claret but they remained calm, utterly unconcerned with their own survival.

An automatic report sounded to the left, Hawkins risked a glance to see Forl blazing off an entire cell to cover his leader.

As soon as he clicked dry, Trooper Slayter was in his place, shooting rapidly at the now advancing Armsmen.

As one, Hawkins and his brick leapt up and ran into the large room, just in time to be buffeted by the blast of several krak grenades detonating at once.

Blood ran from Hawkins' ears from the overpressure, and through the deafening ringing he now heard he kept momentum, taking in the situation in a split second and silently praising the Initiative shown by his men.

Forl, Bojan and Cadan rushed through the breach as the dust still flew, disappearing out of sight.

Merely a second later, All three flew back through the ragged hole, Cadan skidding into a workstation in a clash of armour plate, the other men tangled in a heap of limbs at the breach point.

The throaty boom of automatic fire filled the room and Corporal Forl exploded, bits of him scattering as the potent bolts did their work.

Covered in bits of his NCO, Trooper Bojan scrambled backwards, struggling to bring his hellgun to bear as another burst of bolts took him apart. His carapace held firm, resisting with loud cracks as the bolts detonated prematurely, but the Marine walked his fire up the Storm Trooper's body and the last round struck his neck.

Bojan's head popped off like a cork, ricocheting wetly from the ceiling as the Astartes warrior shouldered his way through the breach, smoke streaming from the barrel of his bolter.

Every remaining storm trooper fired at once, violet bolts, turned into glittering neon beams by the dust particles in the air slashed into the warrior.

He withdrew at once, unable to take such punishment at close range, his transhuman body ravaged by pinpricks of dozens of shot puncturing his hallowed armour.

Hawkins drove forward with his men, following the Astartes as the hulking warrior moved backwards slowly, firing off the odd bolt, his aim faltering as he took increasing injuries on board.

The giant finally fell at the entrance to the corridor, crashing down like some great felled oak into the central hallway behind the serfs that had been moving up to flank the Afriels.

The giant's armour seeped blood, bright with vitality into the cold stone underfoot from hundreds of holes, briefly staining the ancient blocks the same colour as the stricken Brother's plate.

Hawkins slammed a fresh cell into his hellgun as his men followed on, charging into the corridor and firing on the serfs, catching them in the open at close quarters.

The Storm Troopers butchered them, within seconds there were two dozen bodies scattered about the Hallway, with more corpses slumped over the barricades.

Reloading again, Hawkins re-organised his depleted forces to the backdrop of gunfire reverberating throughout the complex, before taking a deep breath and moving off once more.


	5. Chapter 5

Sgt Granger's squad had cleared the upper floor without further casualties, having taken on a number of humans armed in a haphazard fashion.

No further Space Marines yet.

Though Granger wasn't fooled. If he was the Space Marine commander, he would spread his forces throughout the keep, knowing each man would be as a bastion to mere human invaders, concentrating a number at the main entrance where the brunt of the attack would be borne.

He had no doubt that there was a Battle Brother up there somewhere.

That's what he would do.

There was a clincher though, Granger thought as his men stood over the bodies of serfs, firing individual shots into skulls to ensure they stay down. The one thing the Space Marines hadn't counted on was the presence of Hellguns. The ability to penetrate Power armour with comparative ease would prove to be the Bellator's downfall, he was sure.

Granger shouldered his weapon once more as he entered the last room, passing through an ornate doorway, the dark wood frame and open doors engraved with detailed carvings of battles past won.

Here, a Battle-Brother wearing a cloak stands atop a dead Tyranid creature, bare headed, roaring at the sky.

There, a dreadnought lifts an immense greenskin into the air, crushing it between the talons of a formidable power claw.

The room beyond was a cold open space of bare stone, the smooth worn floor leading to an impressive Dais, cut in the shape of a grand Aquila carved from granite.

Banners hung high from the walls every 5 metres, Granger risked a glance and caught depictions of local PDF fighting alongside colossal Astartes, one for every time the Bellators Crimson had assisted the people of Horstland no doubt.

There were candles evenly spaced throughout the chamber, though they had been recently snuffed, plunging the place into darkness. The Storm Trooper's targeting monocles automatically adjusted, casting a hazy green hue over their left eyes.

Sgt Granger spread his men out, advancing in an extended line to dominate the space as he thought to himself

_This place is a chapel. It is wrong to fight here._

A whine of servos to the front brought the Storm Trooper's carbines up as one, tracking the sound.

The sound ended in a thump, the crunching step of something heavy changing position accompanied by the _whir-clack_ of an ammo hopper chambering rounds.

Everybody froze, observing their arcs.

Granger saw it first, the glow of eye pieces. Unnaturally bright through night vision, burning like the soul fires of an angry daemon, the glowing eyes seemed to stare straight at him.

Granger's finger squeezed the trigger.

'Contact!' the word was never heard.

Muzzle flash lit up the scene in a strobe of flashing colour. The roar of the heavy bolter in a confined space sounded like the God-Emperor himself was trying to tear through the veil of reality, the fire rate so fast it seemed like a single drawn out blare of noise.

The flickering light accompanied a stream of accurate tracer as it panned from right to left, framing the deaths of Storm Troopers as though viewed through a faulty Pict-screen.

One man separated at the waist and flipped, his head smashing into his own legs as the mashed remains crumpled to the ground.

The next Afriel fired off a single shot before he simply ceased to exist from the chest up, mass reactive rounds destroying armour, flesh and bone in a display of pure overkill.

Granger screamed through the din, his anger unheard as his automatic fire flared back at the giant, then Trooper "Mack" Macharius to his left detonated, his torso turning to mince in an instant.

A piece of the dead man's skull smacked Granger in the face, knocking him to the floor with a wet slap as tracer fire cut the air where he stood just moments before.

The Sergeant blacked out for a microsecond, coming round staring at the ceiling, feeling confused.

Sounds of gunfire and shouted orders clattered around him, multiple overlapping snaps of Hellgun fire being answered by the bassy report of the heavy weapon.

Men were dying.

The clarity struck him like a fist to the gut. He had to do something or all his men were dead.

Looking around hurriedly, Granger spied the demolition charge still attached to the remains of Trooper Mack's webbing.

Granger crawled over to the carcass and struggled with the clasp, eventually just ripping the bulky ordnance away as he primed the proximity fuse.

Scrambling to his feet, Granger shouted 'HEY' at the top of his lungs as he swung the weapon with all his might.

The heavy weapon Marine's head snapped round like a turret, glowing eyes boring into him, filled with righteous hate.

His weapon followed a split second later, swinging around with inhuman efficiency, the muzzle glowing red hot.

Granger let go of the Demo charge as the Bellators Crimson Battle-Brother triggered his weapon, the controlled burst ripping the man apart like so much tissue under acid rain.

He never saw the Demolition charge clang against the Warrior's head, magnetic clamps engaging momentarily before it functioned.

The resulting explosion obliterated the Space Marine, the Dais and a large portion of the floor in a huge ball of flame, flattening the surviving Storm Troopers and flash burning all exposed skin of their bodies.

They picked themselves up, unsure of what happened.

Corporal Alvar looked around, momentarily deaf. He felt the warm trickle of blood running from his ears as he took in the situation.

Alvar gestured to his men to take stock of the dead and give him an ammo state, as sent a radio check over the squad vox.

Nothing.

Gathering his remaining men together, Alvar mournfully took command and gave the order to move out.

* * *

><p>The explosion rocked Alexiel to his core, bringing chunks of rockrete and stone crashing down among the training cages, crushing one entirely, destroying the servitors within.<p>

The ambush point was compromised, from the result of that explosion Alexiel could only assume that he and Fleynt were the only ones left.

Anger flowed through him, the arrogance of these treacherous humans was astounding. The barricade on the ground floor had been assaulted by plasma and melta weapons, the 4 brothers down there fighting a bitter defence. The upper floors had been cleared alarmingly quickly, Alexiel receiving reports of pale skinned humans, utterly fearless and unusually well-armed, selling their lives without thought of their own safety.

The plan had been to hold at the training cages, incorporating the keep's armoury, it was the most heavily fortified chamber in the building with only one entrance.

The ceiling caving in had put paid to that idea.

Alexiel looked at Fleynt and nodded his head.

'Advance. Kill them all.'

He commanded with a growl.

Brothers Alexiel and Fleynt strode through the doorway into the corridor.

3 of the pale humans were mere metres from them organised in a loose formation, a look of brief alarm on their faces cut off as they adjusted the aim of their short las-weapons.

Alexiel snapped off a shot with his bolt pistol, blasting a man off his feet in a burst of blood as Fleynt triggered his flamer, casting a sweeping arc of burning promethium, engulfing the other 2 men who crumpled to the ground without a sound.

They didn't scream.

In his hundred years of service, Brother-Sergeant Alexiel had never witnessed a human burn to death without screaming.

The pair of Warriors walked down the corridor, weathering a hail of violet las-fire. A beam stabbed painfully through Alexiel's leg, another punched through the muscle on his shoulder, causing him to flinch and fire his pistol at nothing in a blaze of bolts.

Surprised at the ease in which the human's weapons punctured his blessed war-plate, this served only to fuel Alexiel' anger as he fired another more accurate round, taking out a man kneeling against the wall in front of the prone form of Brother Luciel, the bolt hitting him low in the gut and penetrating his armour, blowing his intestines and thighs out all over the floor.

Switching aim to his next target even as a Las-shot punched through his helmet, leaving a cauterised graze on his temple, Alexiel locked eyes with his victim momentarily.

This one didn't wear a helmet, his unnatural pallor visible for all to see.

Though he lacked any colour at all to his eyes, Alexiel felt the mutant-thing returning his stare.

The abhuman was totally lacking in fear. His frail existence was likely to be ended at any moment but there he stood, calmly firing his carbine weapon at the Emperor's chosen Angels.

This was not the fanatical insanity of a brainwashed cultist, nor the steeled core of the zealot, as he had seen numerous times among the sisters of the Ecclesiarchy.

This was simply a lack of fear.

Disturbingly, it reminded Alexiel of himself.

He shook the thought off as soon as it formed and pulled the trigger.

* * *

><p>Hawkins felt as though a stampeding Grox had butted him in the chest.<p>

The bolt exploded against his carapace, catapulting him backwards with force, the Storm Trooper commander falling over the corpse of the recently deceased Marine and smacking his head on the hard stone painfully.

Stars filled his eyes and bells rung in his ears for the second time in recent memory as he blinked, looking back at the smattering of corpses left in the Storm Trooper's wake.

He faintly felt a stinging sensation in the entire right side of his face, a result of fragmentation thrown up by the bolt blast, but adrenalin kept the pain at bay for now.

He rolled to his feet, taking in the scene as his weapon rose into the shoulder.

Trooper Cadan's body knelt to his left, the man left in the position he died in, staring at his own guts with a bemused look on his face.

Corporal Gideon and the remainder of his brick were dead, burnt or shot up in almost casual fashion when the Space Marines first appeared.

In his periphery, He saw a gout of flame engulf Krabb and Seth. Krabb advanced, still firing, a walking funeral pyre. He managed 3 steps before collapsing to his death.

Seth hit the deck immediately and rolled, seeking to smother the flames.

Initiative was lost.

Hawkins had the Marine with Flamer in his sights.

_Crack_

Perfect headshot, the Marine dropped mid step like a marionette with its strings cut.

Switching targets to the Marine that shot him, the obvious leader from the looks of him, Hawkins lined up a second headshot and squeezed the trigger.

The whine of an empty power cell sounded like a death knell to Hawkins.

Time to adapt, take the fight to the enemy.

Do exactly what they don't expect.

He slung his weapon to the side and drew his bolt pistol, firing the first shot from the hip as it cleared its holster as he simultaneously drew his machete left-handed, thumbing the activation rune.

The Space Marine calmly slid a fresh magazine home as the bolt missed his head by inches and raised the weapon to fire.

Hawkins continued to fire on automatic as he broke into a run, aiming for the head, explosive rounds crashing around the huge warrior.

One hit him directly in the face, whipping his head back for a second, causing Hawkin's heart to leap in his chest.

But the Marine's armour held firm, and he made to fire again as a round hit his pistol, causing the small bolter to explode, taking his hand and most of a forearm with it in a flash of muscle and ceramite as his entire magazine cooked off at once.

The Battle-Brother didn't even flinch, merely switching stance to favour his Chainsword as Hawkins closed the final few metres.

Throwing the Bolt pistol as it clicked empty, Hawkins dropped mid-sprint as the Marine swung, sword edge screaming, an efficient horizontal chop with designs on Hawkins' head, but he wasn't there.

Skidding on his knee, Hawkins took a 2 handed grip and swung the crackling blade with all his might, rewarded with a satisfying _thunk _as it struck the knee joint of the Astartes power armour.

Lacking the strength to sever the warrior's leg completely, Hawkins strained and ripped the blade back out, causing the Brother-Sergeant to sink heavily to one knee as tendons and ligaments no longer present failed to hold him upright.

At the same time Hawkins rose to his feet, reversing the grip on his weapon and bracing the pommel with his support hand against his chest, aiming the tip for the Space Marine's throat.

* * *

><p>Disbelief.<p>

Alexiel could not believe what was happening. Forced to kneel, he stared now, eye to eye with the Abhuman. He wore a grotesque visage, the entire right side of his face torn open by shrapnel, white skin contrasting sharply within a mask of blood.

Alexiel stared at him through his visor, millimetres away, his mind filled with nothing but hate for a second that felt like an eternity.

With the enemy far too close for a Chainsword strike, Brother-Sergeant Alexiel did the first thing that entered his mind. 

* * *

><p>Hawkins braced to shove the machete in but needn't have bothered.<p>

The big Space Marine's arms enveloped him in a bear hug, seeking to crush the life out him with fearsome augmented strength.

For a nano-second, Hawkins felt almost unimaginable pain. Ceramite creaked, bones cracked and Hawkins' vision dimmed as immense pressure was placed around his torso.

Then, as fast as it started, it ceased.

The Marine's arms dropped away and Hawkins stumbled back, catching his breath in ragged gasps.

He looked at the machete handle sticking from the Astartes warrior's throat and saw what had happened.

The giant had killed himself.

Whether by accident or design, his crushing grip had driven the powered blade through his neck, where the tip now rested against the rear of his gorget.

Hawkins spat a gobbet of bloody phlegm onto the floor and retrieved his blade, ripping it out sideways, causing the head to topple, dragging the rest of the body with it.

Hawkins looked at the Bellators Crimson Brother, seeing one close up for the first time.

The armour was ancient, the deep red plate's texture bumpy and rough, as though it had suffered numerous damages and had been lovingly repaired over thousands of years.

A small gold plate was attached to the chest plate, just below the neck, where blood now poured.

It said "Alexiel" in exquisitely carved gothic text, followed by the names of planets and battles that Hawkins had never heard of. Hawkins couldn't get a thought out of his head

_This man has seen worlds die in service. Now I have ended him_

Suddenly aware of a noise to his rear, Hawkins looked up to see the remnants of 2nd platoon and his own men jogging towards him, each man looking like they had lived through hell, with scarred armour and bleeding wounds.

Trooper Seth began to stir, the stalwart commando sitting up, his right shoulder and face a mess of burnt tissue.

Along with The Captain himself, Seth was the only survivor from squad 1.

'Couldn't reach you on vox, Hawkins.' Tuomas shouted down the corridor at him. The lieutenant had a blood soaked bandage hastily tied around one side of his head, his helmet shoved back on top over that.

'Ground floor clear, 4 dead Marines and a bunch of servants accounted for. 11 friendly dead.'

Hawkins nodded at the Afriel officer and turned to look at Alexiel one last time before taking command of the mission.

'Apologies, hero of the Imperium.' He said to the corpse.

'None of us deserved this.'

Seth Laughed, it was an ugly sound, the sound of someone with internal burns. He pointed to the dead Marines as another Albino soldier tended to his wounds.

'What are we doing this for again, boss?'

Hawkins wanted to say 'For the Emperor.' But for some reason it felt inappropriate.

* * *

><p>Inquisitor Fellon cut the vox link and leaned back in the command throne aboard an unnamed troop ship, hanging in low orbit around Horstland.<p>

Hawkins' report had been favourable.

27 dead Afriel Strain for 10 Space Marines and a cluster of human warriors. Given the Astartes well-deserved reputation, those numbers were well within projected mission tolerances.

With Colonel-Commissar Armitage en-route to the staging area with the rest of the regiment, phase 2 could go ahead post haste.

Within the year, Fellon estimated that he would have sufficient evidence to present to the council.

His master would be pleased, and his status would be elevated. It was as simple as that.

Fellon allowed himself a smile as he took a sip of Amasec.

* * *

><p><strong>Now<strong>

Brother-Captain Solant recalled Alexiel's helm recording with a grimace. It would seem that the Pale skinned Soldiers that murdered his men were part of a bigger scheme. One would incur the wrath of the entire Bellators Crimson chapter if need be.

These things could not be allowed to exist.

'Brother-Captain Solant.' Codicier Eber said as he entered the burnt out office chamber.

'What are your findings, brother?' Solant asked, eager to learn if his Warp blessed brother had made any more sense of the situation.

'The bodies back there are not the Inquisitor's men.'

Captain Solant shot him an aggravated look.

'Explain.'

'I've read their surface memories. They were locals, hired in the last 24 hours, to guard that.' He pointed to the burnt remains of the Inquisitor, a look of disgust on his face.

'That is not Inquisitor Fellon.'

'Impossible.' Apothecary Luxus stated, certainty in his voice. 'The genetic match is irrefutable.'

'You are wrong, brother.' Eber countered politely. 'The surface thoughts of this thing contain no words, only emotions. It felt nothing but terror before it died, pure fear, unsullied by conscious thought. It's as though we killed a new-born.'

Solant's expression darkened.

'A clone?' Brother Sergeant Cadellon asked his master.

'It would seem so, brother. The servants of the cog are characteristically guarded when it comes to the use of their sacred technology.' He prodded the burnt corpse with an armoured boot. 'Creating servitors is one thing, but a fully grown copy of an existing Imperial agent? What kind of man has access to such facilities?'

Before anyone could answer, Cadellon spoke.

His voice had an edge of urgency, his tone clipped.

'My lord, the command Land Raider is picking up multiple contacts on long range Auspex. Fliers, dozens of them approaching on an attack vector.'

Captain Solant shoved his helmet over his head, his voice coming out as a distorted growl as the seals locked around his throat.

'Designation?'

'Imperial, sir. Vultures and Valkyries.'

This was it. The Inquisitor had laid a trap for his men, drawing the company onto a world's surface to do battle.

Even now, hordes of the Albino mutants were hurtling towards them in Flimsy airframes, intent on shedding blood.

Captai Solant opened the company vox channel to address his men.

'Brothers, an enemy has reared it's head. It approaches now, as I speak.

Look up to the sky my Brothers, and prepare for war!'


End file.
